“What makes the chief so stingy with that big handsome girl of his?” queried the new interne a bit resentfully. “He won’t ever bring her into the hospital, won’t ever ask any of us young chaps out to his house, and some of us come mighty near to being eligible, too. Who’s he saving her for, anyway? A saint? A miracle-worker? A millionaire medicine-man? They don’t exist, you know.” “I’m saving her for myself,” snapped the Senior Surgeon, most disconcertingly from the doorway. “She--she happens to be my wife, not my daughter, thank you.” He hurried home that night as rattled as a boy, with a big bunch of new magazines and a box of candy as large as his head tucked courtingly under his arm. Now and again across the chasm that separated them flashed the incontrovertible signal of mutual trust and appreciation, as when once, after a particularly violent vocal outburst on the Senior Surgeon’s part, he sobered down very suddenly and said: “Rae Malgregor, do you realize that in all the weeks we’ve been together you’ve never once nagged me about my swearing? Not a word, not a single word!” “I’m not very used to--words,” smiled the White Linen Nurse, a bit faintly. “All I know how to nag with is--is raw eggs. If we could only get those nerves of yours padded just once, sir!” In August the Senior Surgeon suggested sincerely that the house was much too big for the White Linen Nurse to run all alone, but conceded equally sincerely, under the White Linen Nurse’s vehement protest, that servants, particularly new servants, _did_ creak considerably round a house, and that maybe “just for the present” at least, until he finished the very nervous paper he was working on--perhaps it would be better to stay “just by ourselves.” In September the White Linen Nurse wanted very much to go home to Nova Scotia to her sister’s wedding, but the Senior Surgeon was trying a very complicated and worrisome new brace on the Little Girl’s leg, and it didn’t seem quite kind to go. In October she planned her trip all over again. She was going to take the Little Crippled Girl with her this time. But with their trunks already packed and waiting in the hall, the Senior Surgeon came home from the hospital with a septic finger, and it didn’t seem quite best to leave him. “Well, how do you like being married _now_?” asked the Senior Surgeon, a bit ironically in his workroom that night, after the White Linen Nurse had stood for an hour with evil-smelling washes and interminable bandages, trying to fix that finger the precise, particular way that he thought it ought to be fixed. “Well, how do you like being married _now_?” he insisted trenchantly.